If I fail, I'll fall apart
by 25Stella27
Summary: Sherlock and Lestrade waiting on a hospital's floor. Sherlock seems to be perfectly unaffected by what has just happened, but what does he really think? Feel? Nothing at all?  Btw, no Slash!
1. Failing

**My first English fanfic but I hope that you won't find too many mistakes because of my great beta alotis2words ;)**  
><strong>alotis2words: Thank you again! <strong>

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><p>No one ever showed me what it'd be like to fail. No one taught me. I had been expected to be the best, so I was.<p>

If you were to ask my parents, they would probably say otherwise, but in the end it had always been my decision whether to disappoint them or not.

But now I had failed. I had tried my best to reach a target, but couldn't achieve it.

The thought itself pains me to no end, but that isn't the worst about it. The worst part of my failure is the consequence. Thinking of it hurts too much. So much that I tried with everything I am to block it from my mind. But suppressing your feelings never works. I know that better than anyone else because I have tried it all my life.

But there has always been another way: to act like you don't have feelings, make everyone believe you don't know emotions. And maybe you can fool yourself.

Unfortunately, unlike others, I'm too brilliant to be fooled.

When I look at Lestrade sitting on that cheap hospital chair, I can tell he's shocked: His skin as pale as the whitewashed wall and his hands faintly shaking.

He doesn't seem to have the power to keep himself straight, doesn't lift his gaze from the ground. Because if he did, he'd see me. Me, the one, who doesn't seem to care about any of these things. Maybe he's always believed in the good in me. If that is the case, then I've let him down. Let him down just like I to do to those foolish enough to close to me.

"Come on. Straighten yourself up. I know you've seen worse injuries." It isn't me saying these words. They just escape from my mouth, my body acts without asking my mind for permission. The expression on his face changes from stunned to aghast.

He opens his mouth like he wants to shout, my observant eyes see him straighten in order to leap up, grip my shoulders and shake some sense into me. But he doesn't. Partly because he doesn't have the power to do so, partly because this is the moment my brother appears. I can tell he's arriving from the steps on the floor a few moments before he comes into sight.

Well not in my sight because I turn away so I don't have to see him. I don't want to see him now, never really wanted to. Not since…

"Sherlock!" he interrupts my thoughts. He sounds worried, he always does when he's talking to me, but normally he hides it better.

"Mycroft!" I say and turn to him an obviously faked smile on my face.

He doesn't answer, instead he stares at me trying to figure out what I feel, if I feel anything at all.

He's always looked at me this way.

I stare back trying to read him as well, to see what he sees in me. When he stares at me like that none of my movements are accidental. I'm under total control trying to make him think of me what I want him to. I shift my hands a bit to make sure he doesn't think I hold them still on purpose. Because that would mean I had to hide something like a faint shaking. I force myself to breath normally, shift my weight a bit being aware of the fact that he might deduce I'm uncomfortable and trying my best to look like I'm not.

It works because I can see he's faintly shocked. He can't believe that I'm having no strong emotions in a moment like this, but that's only what his eyes tell him. And –believe me- he'd never doubt them.

"Are you coming to get me home?" I hear the arrogance in my voice and it's hard to hide a smile, because of the irony, as I act perfectly normal though it feels like my world's falling apart. "The Detective didn't want to let me go."

Lestrade opens his mouth to protest, probably wanting to say that it is me of all who should be interested in what happens here.

Again he's interrupted. This time by an opening door. A tired doctor steps outside, the expression on his face telling that he has just failed. Just like me.

I turn away using my brother's distraction. My wandering gaze finds a picture, a replica of an old Van Gogh. Of course, it's cheap and the quality isn't high. I recognize that it as one of his last pictures painted just a few days before he killed himself. I wonder why they put it here. It's pretty depressing.

I'm never been into arts much, just learned the basics facts to be able to determine a claimed enthusiast from a liar. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that people never lie just once. It tells me much about their character.

"Excuse me!" calls my brother, bringing me back to reality, because the doctor intends to go without paying any attention to us. The doctor turns, a disgruntled look on his tired face. "What?" he grumbles obviously not made nervous by the sight of the important suit-wearing look of my brother.

"Did you treat John Watson?" The doctor shrugs. He doesn't seem to recognize the name, but probably he doesn't know the names of the patients. Probably he doesn't ask for. I wouldn't. Not when they end this way.

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><p>Reviews are of course highly appreciated!<p> 


	2. Waking

**Voilà, the next chapter! Thanks to everyone for reviewing and reading! I hope some of the ones who didn't leave a review liked it too :) **

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><p>"Short blond hair, scars of a gunshot wound on the left shoulder", my brother states, observing the unnamed doctor with the same intensity he normally reserves for me.<p>

I can barely keep myself from glancing over to them, though it doesn't help much. The rhythm of their breaths changes slightly: The doctor has recognized John - my brother read it on his face.

I feel that the world around me start to spin, but I do my best to keep focused on the painting - though I can't see properly.

"I can't tell you anything about patients unless you're a relative." The doctor.

Pause. My brother hesitates too long to lie convincingly. He's too slow, always has been.

"My brother's his flat mate." He finally says, which is not very convincing, despite the truth of it. He should've said he's the British Government.

While I'm listening to their conversation I feel my heart rate increase and everything around me becomes even more blurred.

I wonder how long it's been since I slept or ate.

"I am Inspective Detector of the New Scotland Yard and I demand you to tell me everything about this patient." Lestrade. Another pause.

"I'm not sure if I'm allowed to give you this information… Can you indentify yourself?"

Pause. Probably Lestrade search his pocket for an ID, which I can feel in my front pocket.

Someone sighs. Mycroft. "Here."

"Why do you have my ID?" Lestrade doesn't sound amused. Looks like I'm not the only one stealing him frequently. "Found it in my brother's flat. Thought it could be useful." If I wouldn't be so near to passing out I'd probably be shocked to find out that my brother breaks into my flat, but at this time I don't care. Much.

"Well, this card seems to be genuine." Doctor. Hesitant. Pause. Then: "I'm sorry… we did everything we could, but-"

Suddenly I'm not able to stand any longer. I barely feel myself falling; everything around me goes black as I touch the ground. Nonetheless I cling to consciousness. From very far away I can hear Lestrade shooting for a doctor, too loud since one's standing right next to him. Idiot.

I feel a cold hand touching my throat, searching for a pulse, just before my brain decides to stop working. And suddenly, it's all black. It's all fine.

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><p><strong>Feel free to leave review, criticism (positive and negative) is highly appreciated!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello, before the beginning of this chapter I've got to give a few "Thank you"s:  
><strong>

**Thanks to everyone  
>-who reviewed this story, it's really great to read some opinions!<br>-who put this on favoritelist or alert  
>and to all the people who simply read it :)<strong>

**And of course an especially big thanks to alotis2words, who has betaed this story to keep you from reading all my mistakes ;)**

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><p>When I wake up, I feel better than expected. My head's slightly hurting, but the rest of my body seems to be fine - or at least no worse than usual. I don't open my eyes instantly, taking my time to think about my situation. I mean, what's more stupid than those people waking up and asking "Where am I? What happened"? A sudden painful twitch rushes through me as I remember what the answer to those questions is. I even feel my eyes filling with tears, though of course they'll never run down my cheeks.<br>After the short time I need to deal with my memory - and by that I mean forcing it in the very back my mind, as nothing, NOTHING, related to John, especially this, could ever be deleted - and instead I concentrate on the sounds around me. I can't hear the beeping of any machines so my condition can't be considered too bad. I try harder and hear some words whose meaning I can't quite figure out. Probably spoken outside, on the floor. I think I'm alone in this room and want to open my eyes. But then I notice a quiet breathing. I concentrate harder and can hardly keep myself from sighing. That's Mycroft.  
>I hear him shift and know that my face must have given me away. And indeed: "Sherlock, I know you're awake. You can stop pretending." He talks in a voice you normally use for children who don't want to accept they're doing something stupid.<br>For a moment, I think about ignoring him, but I know that would be useless. Mycroft might be slow, but that means he's also very patient. And the sooner I talk to him, the sooner he'll leave.  
>"I didn't pretend to sleep" I say. "I just didn't feel like opening my eyes." I still don't want to, but Mycroft would have the edge over me, if I can't see him.<br>The room I lie in is small, and just contains my bed, a night table and the chair Mycroft's sitting on. The style of the walls tells me that it is the same hospital I passed out in.  
>Even though I have to look directly into his eyes - something I've avoided for years - I can't help but glance in Mycroft's face. He has dark circles around the eyes and hasn't shaved. He's probably been sitting here all night. I wonder why. Has he been worried about me? Normally he trusts the doctors. Just like he did when...<br>I put the thought aside again, because don't want to think about this now. Although, really, I never want to think about it.  
>I notice that Mycroft hasn't said anything since I opened my eyes. I allow myself another short glance: he just stares at me. Concerned. Worried. Though he isn't directly looking me in the eyes I have to turn away because I can't bear his expression. No one's ever really worried about me, at least no one still alive.<br>"Why are you here?" I break the silence, biting my lips because it's something I always avoid. It's like admitting that I'm so uncomfortable with the silence that I'd take talking to Mycroft over it.  
>But at least I've sounded angry.<br>Mycroft doesn't answer instantly, but keeps looking at me.  
>"I thought you'd be glad to have me here" he finally says in a soft voice. "But I'm not!" I know that I answer too quick and too harsh but I can't bear his presence. His face. His voice.<br>"Look" he says. "I know what you're going through, you've just..." He takes a deep breath, reconsidering his words. "There are situation's you can't handle on your own, so I thought you might need some one, who-"  
>"-If I needed someone -which is not the case- it definitely wouldn't be you." I'm not harsh this time, but completely calm, though it's much harder. Therefore it works better. A short look into Mycroft's eyes shows me he's really been hurt this time. And shocked, just like the night before.<br>He continues staring at me, probably looking for emotions but they're all locked away, tearing me apart from the inside.  
>"In that case I'd better go." I don't say anything. Hesitant, he stands up, his gaze still on me, waiting for me to show any reaction. As I don't, he finally walks towards the door. Still hesitant like he'd, hope I'd call him back.<br>"Mycroft!", I say as his fingers touch the door handle. "Yes?" He turns around and I can see his eyes lighten in amazement. "You forgot your umbrella." The joyful look is washed from his face instantly. "Oh." He goes back to get the umbrella avoiding to look at me for the first time I remember. I can't help a short satisfied smile. For my whole life I've been the one looking away.


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm really glad so many people are obviously liking this story!  
>So, without much talking, the next chapter:<br>**

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><p>It only takes a few minutes of being alone before I regret sending Mycroft away. Not because I hurt him of course. He deserved it. I'm sure he can handle it.<br>But he's distracted me a bit. For a few minutes I attempt to draw my attention to something in the room but it's just boring. I can deduce that the way the bedsheets had been folded that the last one who's lain in this bed suffered from cancer and finally died (about two days before I "arrived"). Furthermore, I know he's (definitely a he) had children (two or three) who live with his ex-wife. They actually still loved each other, but he decided to break up after finding out he was about to die. I know he wanted to keep her from suffering but in the end it was likely that she only suffered more.  
>It's a sad story. And this time I don't just know. I can feel it. I can feel how desperate they were, can nearly hear them praying, cursing god for the fact that life's not fair. A few hours ago I would've thought that they should just shut up, because praying doesn't change anything. I would've thought of them as stupid. But even though I still don't believe in god or some higher power listening to our prayers, I can understand the people who do, who hope to be heard. Because after everything leaves us, and everything is gone, the last thing to remain is hope. Without it, we are nothing.<br>For the first time I wonder if there is a life after death. I always assumed there wasn't, as natural laws said otherwise, and it was perfectly explainable, just like everything -except for human existence- is.

About an hour after Mycroft leaves (judging by the position of the sun) a nurse comes to take a look at me. She asks me how I feel and nags me for not eating enough, but I don't bother to answer.  
>At first she's irritated, but she finally understands I don't want to talk and shuts up.<br>Only when she leaves does she tell me that a doctor's going to check on me later, and that I'll be probably allowed to go afterwards.  
>I instantly decide not to wait this long and stand up as soon as she closes the door. I need a few seconds to find my balance, but I suppose that's because they've given me some sedative in order to make my body relax.<br>I make a few steps testing my feet and come to reason that they work perfectly well.  
>I look around hoping they haven't taken my clothes away, because I don't want to walk the streets of London in the ugly pajamas I'm wearing. Not that I care about my appearance much, but I certainly would attract unwanted attention.<br>I finally find my clothes meticulously folded in the closet.  
>I put them on and already touch the door handle as I decide to take a short look at myself in the mirror; I look acceptable. Not like life's pulsing through me but at least not like the walking dead.<br>And with that thought, I leave.


	5. Chapter 5

Of course, I should've known my brother would put obstacles between me and leaving the hospital. Obviously my brain isn't at its best at the moment. When I leave my room and intend to go to the exit, a doctor suddenly steps in my way. At first I ignore him, walking past him, but he grabs my arm. "Are you allowed to go? I don't think you've had your final check yet!" "Yes, I did!" I contradict vehemently (and quickly, that's what important, Mycroft) and free myself. My watchdog doesn't seem to have expected that and hesitates a few seconds. Long enough for me to get a few meters away and put some people between us. From a short look at his chest I know he's a head physician. That means he'll consider himself ridiculous if he chase me. I'm right: he stretches a bit to keep sight of me but finally he shrugs and turns away. My brother should have hired a nurse. She would've probably followed me through whole London for half the money Mycroft had likely promised this man. He should know it's not always best to work with the most powerful people around. My homeless network works much better.  
>Since I think that Mycroft will have people or cameras (or both) watching all exits of the hospital I don't walk straight to the main lobby, hoping to find an open window or something along those lines. I know it's childish, because I'm planning to go to Baker Street, where he'll find me anyway, but I can't bear the thought of being watched by him all the time.<br>I look around and realize that I've, without noticing, walked right to the place where I passed out. I feel my hand shaking as my gaze finds the door the doctor came out of last night and put them into my pocket. The world starts to spin again but this time I won't be as weak. I somehow manage to turn away and force my feet to run as fast as possible. I barely notice the people staring at me, I only know I have to get away.

When I stop running I'm in the middle of London's crowded streets. I'm panting and my lungs are burning as much as my legs. I enjoy the physical pain since it takes some of my brain capacity, but I can't run any further. Instead I have to figure out where to go. The first place popping up in my mind is Baker Street, but unfortunately it is also the last. Of course I could go to the institute, but Molly will be there trying to comfort me and I can't stand any company right now. Mrs. Hudson might also try to comfort me, but it's easier to tell her off. (And -I swallow- it's possible they brought John to the institute)  
>I look around to orientate. I actually know this street. It's a few blocks from Baker Street, but I've dropped my wallet somewhere on the run, so I can't afford a taxi.<br>Besides, I'm in the mood for walking anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey, thank you for all the nice reviews, they really are what keeps me writing!**

**And also a big thank you to my great beta who finds all my grammar mistakes =) **

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><p>When Lestrade got home it was already half past three in the morning. Tiredly, he curled into his bed but just couldn't fall asleep. Though his body was worn out, his brain kept thinking, trying to handle what had happened during the last hours.<br>It had been 11:30 when they got the call of a panicked old woman who was sure London was under attack like it had been during Second World War. Since calming old people who were lost in their memories wasn't his job, Lestrade had thought about leaving the office as he intended to do anyway, but then the woman mentioned her address. An address Lestrade had read just a few hours ago because it was right next to the pool Carl Powers drowned in. He had hurried to his car without thinking, shouting at some Sergeant that this was serious and that she should call an ambulance.  
>Though he started first, he wasn't the first one to get to the pool due to London traffic and the fact the Hospital was nearer than the New Scotland Yard.<br>He found the place already crowded by curious onlookers and some of his colleagues. Now, he could understand why the woman thought London was being attacked: The bomb had destroyed one of the walls completely and seriously damaged the others. He hurried to the pool seeing that it had lost most of its water because of a fracture of its ground. Lestrade looked closer and spotted a man lying in the pool. His heart missed some beats as he realized it was Sherlock Holmes.  
>"Sherlock?" he shouted feeling his heart pounding in his chest as he hustled some police officers in his way.<br>He had already reached the edge of the pool looking for a way to get in the basin when Sherlock struggled to his feet. Lestrade felt relief rushing through him: Sherlock was alive and hopefully not injured too badly. "I'll get you out of there!" he called, maybe to reassure himself as much as Sherlock. The other man just nodded and stretched his body. Lestrade hoped that meant he wouldn't die if staying in the pool at little longer. The DI searched for a way to get down again but the stairs didn't reach the ground. "Does anyone have a rope?" he called, turning to his colleagues. All of them shrugged.  
>"I might have one in my car...", someone muttered.<br>"THEN GO AND GET IT!" Lestrade himself was a little bit surprised at his yelling, but it worked, and The man hurried away.  
>Since he couldn't do anything more for Sherlock, Lestrade looked for any member of his team who could give him information on what had happened.<br>He spotted Anderson on the other site of the pool, but also found -to his relief- Donovan just a few meters away. "What happened?" he asked. "We don't know much. A bomb exploded and the freak's here... Already seen him?" She paused and he nodded. "I would say it's one of his experiments either gone totally wrong or exactly the way he wanted." Lestrade frowned at her but didn't have the power to contradict. And maybe she was right anyway.  
>He was about to ask whether there were any witnesses when someone shouted.<br>"Hey, we've found someone, beneath the debris!"  
>Lestrade turned instantly and could see some people trying to get the detritus away. "I found a rope." The man he sent away was back holding a green rope with his outstretched hand. Lestrade looked from the debris to the rope and finally decided to get Sherlock. "Donovan, will you go over there and look who they've found?" She nodded and hurried away.<br>Lestrade turned to the pool again and Sherlock watched him now observantly. "Took you long enough", he said as Lestrade got near enough to hear him. Lestrade rolled his eyes; had he really been worried about this man?  
>"Be quiet, or I'll leave you down there until morning, it's already dangerous enough to get near the pool. There could be another bomb!"<br>Sherlock snorted. "Do you really think this was a leftover from some World War?" Lestrade shrugged while he tied the rope to the banister of the stairs. "We have nothing else at the moment. Anything could have happened. If you've got any information you'd care to share..."  
>"Of course I do, it would take you a century to figure it out on your own. Though it might be amusing to hear what Anderson says..." Sherlock gripped the rope and tested it with a yank. "Donovan's guessing it was one of your experiments." Sherlock chuckled silently, while climbing upwards. "No, definitely not an experiment." He vaulted elegantly over the edge and started to knock the dirt and ash off his coat. "By the way, have you seen John? I told him to..." Sherlock's voiced faded as he looked up. Lestrade followed his gaze and instantly knew why Sherlock stopped speaking: His colleagues had finally managed to free the person beneath the debris and put him on a stretcher. Though the man was covered with blood and dust Lestrade still recognized John's blond hair.<br>He shot a glance at Sherlock - who stood perfectly motionless, still staring at John - a short look and then ran over to the doctors.  
>"How badly is he injured?", he panted, still a few meters away.<br>"Very badly." One of doctors stated without looking up. "Not sure he'll make it. Lost a lot of blood and has some head injuries, but we'll have to wait until we have the proper equipment to ascertain their seriousness."  
>Lestrade nodded faintly and slowed down as they reached the ambulance. "What hospital?", he managed to call just before they closed the door. "St. Bart's."<br>The ambulance rushed away, but Lestrade's remained locked on it far after its flashing lights had disappeared.  
>Without another word he went back to Sherlock, grabbed him by the shoulder, and took him to his car.<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

I had hoped to slip in unnoticed, but I had lost my keys along with my wallet. I really start to wonder if I've left them in hospital, but I'm actually pretty sure I've had felt them in one of my pockets. And until yesterday you could regard things I've been sure about as facts.  
>I ring the bell and don't even look at Mrs. Hudson as she opens the door, but go for the flat directly. She calls something after me but I don't listen to it.<br>Fortunately the apartment isn't locked (well, forget the 'fortunately', in fact the apartment's never locked because I think it's just waste of time, since everyone who would want to break into it wouldn't be stopped by the lock anyway).  
>As soon as I enter the flat I feel trapped. Until now, I've had a goal: the flat. But I haven't thought about what I would do afterwards. I start pacing up and down, but you can't run from anything if you go in circles. Not even from memories.<br>They're like a wave rushing over me. I can't breathe, can't think as they draw me back to the past:  
>I'm at the pool again. John's sitting on the ground, back against the wall. He looks up to me. I see fear in his face just as determination. He knows we'll die and that all we can do is taking Moriarty with us.<br>My gun points at the bomb John was wearing less than two minutes ago. All I can think is that this is the only option and that Moriarty must know that. He's standing as close to the bomb as we are so it is going to hit him just like it is going to hit us. Another thing I know for sure is that Moriarty hasn't come here to die. He might have taken a risk but he expects to survive this. So he has to have an escape plan. He isn't near a door, but at least as far away as John is. He's neither standing on any kind of trapdoor nor hanging on a rope to be lifted into air. The only possible scenario of escaping is running for the exit, which takes him at least ten seconds. But there are only about three seconds between me shooting and the bomb hitting him. He must know that. He must have known it before he entered the pool. So he must have manipulated the bomb into providing him extra time. Enough time for him to escape, but not enough for us if we figure out after shooting. We know we'll die, so we won't be trying to escape. That's his plan. I have to admit it's quite a good one. Not good enough since I figured it out, but still remarkable. I take one long breath reconsidering my train of thoughts. Yes, I still think I'm right.  
>I shoot John another look, trying to tell him what I think. Trying to tell him we're going to survive. I'm not sure he understands. Better I'll try communication verbally after I pulled the trigger. Then Moriarty will be too occupied with fleeing to tell his snipers to shoot us cause we've figured out his plans. I take another deep breath. The pool's closer to me than the exit and the water will protect me just as well.<br>The decision's made. I pull the trigger; shout "Run, John! Run!" and leap into the water.  
>I do a few stokes to get deeper into the pool then the world's bathed in bright light and the water tosses me around just like a ball<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

Jim Moriarty was seething with anger. His perfect plan had gone wrong! He couldn't even remember the last time any part of one of his plans failed and certainly there never had been such a fiasco! Sherlock Holmes had escaped. Well, that actually had been part of the plan, but he shouldn't have escaped this way! The Consulting Detective should have got away because Moriarty decided to give him another chance. Sherlock should've known he'd lost this battle, just like he'd lose any that were still to come. He should've known he was only alive because Moriarty wanted him to suffer before dying and for no other reason! But this idiot had figured out Moriarty's back-up plan. He hadn't even been sure if it was necessary to manipulate the bomb because he was sure Sherlock loved his life too much to shoot. But obviously he didn't. Moriarty cursed himself for not realizing it. Wasn't that clear after he almost took the pill of the cab driver? (The right pill, by the way, one thing that was really annoying Moriarty since he himself would've taken the wrong one)  
>Oh, he had become too lazy. He had made mistakes. But that wouldn't happen again! Moriarty smiled silently because even though everything went wrong the outcome wasn't too bad. He could still defeat Sherlock Holmes. He had already hurt him badly and could hurt him even more. Him and his stupid pet.<p>

I haven't left the flat during the past two days. I hate being here, but I can't think of any other place to go. Sometimes I can still feel John's presence and I'm tempted to pretend he's just left for work or buying milk. Or even that he's in his room upstairs. I mean, I didn't notice he was gone when he was still alive why should his absence bother me now? Of course, I know that this thought is stupid. But all I do is stupid at the moment: I miss John, sometimes so much I wonder how I can live without him, though I have most of my life. A month ago I wouldn't even noticed he'd died (as long as he wasn't murdered in a very interesting way). I do a bit of calculation and find out that I've known John for only 0.27 % of my life. So how is it possible he influenced it so much?  
>Since I've studied some psychological books I know that I'm doing the completely wrong thing. I should try to move on, should try to live the life I've lead before meeting John. But I just can't. I can't even bring myself to seeking revenge because I know that Moriarty will come for me anyway and I'm already cursing that day!<br>My brother and Lestrade both came here yesterday. I pretended to sleep each time. Lestrade actually bought it (he even checked my pulse to make sure I was just sleeping and not dead or comatose). I'm not sure if my brother believed me though. He didn't say a word, but just stared at me. I have no clue if he thought I'd been indeed sleeping or only was trying to avoid another argument.  
>It's nearly half past nine now, but none of them came today. I'm sure they'll arrive soon to make sure I'm still alive. The sound of a stopping car instantly proves me right. I hear a door opened and slammed shut, then another. Wow, they're coming together. Must be bringing news or something like this. I decide to pretend I'm asleep again. It'd worked quite well and maybe they'll leave once more.<br>I hear steps coming closer, the door being opened. They stop, probably watching me laying on the couch eyes closed and breathing calmly. "Should we wake him?" Lestrade whispers. He sounds uncomfortable, like not wanting to wake me from sweet dreams to tell me bad news. I wonder what "bad news" could be. The worst has already happened. And the only other people more or less close to me are standing in my living room. Mycroft hesitates before finally agreeing. But words are not followed by action. "Should I...?", Lestrade finally asks. My brother doesn't answer verbally but since I can hear Lestrade stepping closer he's for sure nodded.  
>"Hey, Sherlock", Lestrade says in a soft voice and shakes my shoulder. "I'm sorry but we have to talk to you." I open my eyes and shift into a sitting position. Lestrade seems a bit stunned by that sudden movement and I can see Mycroft now knows that I haven't been sleeping, but neither of us comments the fact.<br>"So what's so important you're interrupting my sweet dreams?" I ask bluntly to get to the end of this conversation quickly.  
>"Well, we just wanted to tell you that..." Lestrade's voice trails off.<br>"That John's going to buried tomorrow", my brother jumps in. Silence raises and they both stare at me as if I'm bomb waiting to explode. I wonder why. I've already known that this was going to come sooner or later.  
>"When?" I finally ask since none them seems to continue speaking. I see them relaxing a bit, thankful for my posing such a casual question. "At noon, Kensal Green cemetery"<br>I simply nod.  
>"So... you're going to be there?", my brother asks carefully. "Of course!", I snap. Why wouldn't I? Well, I've never liked funerals and stated on every family one that they were completely unnecessary but this was something else. (or at least it feels different)<br>"And you're sure you can handle this?"  
>"Naturally." We are met by another pause, neither of them knew what to say. "If you don't think you can handle this, it's no problem to stay at-" Lestrades voice trails off again as my brother shoots him an angry look probably meaning "Don't argue, he's made his decision".<br>"Well, then we'll meet tomorrow." They turn to leave but a thought suddenly crosses my mind. "Have you told his sister?" They stop, Mycroft frowns. "He's got a sister? Didn't know that."  
>I'm surprised. "You haven't done any research on him?" I would've bet Mycroft had read every single file existing about John from his military records to his first year school report.<br>But he just shrugs. "I could pretty much tell everything about him when I saw him for first time. Thought it wasn't worth the effort."  
>"Should have known it anyway. You're getting old, brother." He frowns surely skipping through his meeting with John again.<br>"The phone!", he says five seconds later.  
>I simply nod. "Is the sister's name Harriet?" Lestrade suddenly asks. "I think Anderson tried to call her but didn't make it... Do you think we should send someone to her to tell?" I think about that and finally shook my head. "No, they didn't got along anyway. Maybe it's better if she's not at the funeral."<br>I wouldn't want Mycroft to attend mine, so I'm pretty sure John wouldn't want Harry to come. Lestrade exchanges a short look with Mycroft, who finally nods. "Okay, we'll tell her afterwards... Do you need anything else? I could send you a car or a suit." I shake my head. I'll use a cab and still have several suits left.  
>And I don't need anything from them.<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

Tonight, for the first time, I can't keep myself from sleeping. I have during the last two days, because of the nightmares that were sure to come, but I can't fight it any longer.  
>Indeed I wake sweating and feeling horrible. I can't remember the dream properly, but I know it contained Harriet yelling at me because I've killed her brother and then turning into John blaming me as well. My breath and heartbeat finally change back to normal and I can shrug off the odd feeling of the dream.<br>My eyes find the clock and I'm shocked. It's already eleven o'clock and, due to London traffic, I'll need at least half an hour to the Eastern graveyard. I jump out of the bed and hurry into the bathroom.  
>Fifteen minutes later I'm fully dressed and ready to go. I even start to think that it's too early for leaving, since I'm not interested in waiting at the graveyard.<br>I've just decided to hope the crowded streets keep me from arriving too early as the phone starts ringing. I frown. No one ever calls this number, since both John and I have mobile phones and aren't at home too often. I think the only one who has ever used the line was Mycroft, because I had ignored my mobile (I also had ignored the phone so he only tried this once).  
>I look at the number, but it's blocked. I think of ignoring the call, but I'm just too curious.<br>I reach for the phone, hesitating shortly at the thought that it could be Moriarty, but he would reach me anyway, wouldn't he?  
>I pick up the phone and hold it to my ear, not saying anything. I never thought that this was something necessary, since the one on the other end should know whom he's trying to reach.<br>My heart misses a few beats and I nearly drop the phone as I hear an all too familiar voice. "Sherlock, Sherlock is that you?"  
>That is impossible! I must be hallucinating! He's dead.<br>"...Sherlock?" He sounds uncertain, maybe wondering if the connection is working.  
>"John?" I manage to ask, though my voice sounds way too weak.<br>"Yes, it's me." I can hear he's relieved, but surely not as relieved as I am.  
>"Listen to me Sherlock, I wanted to tell you I'm still alive, but I can't explain it now. And you have to keep away from me, okay? Don't try to find me! Please. Can you promise this? Don't try to find me!"<br>I'm stunned, barely able to follow what he's saying and only partly because he's talking insanely fast. For the first time of my life I can only think about one thing: John's alive! He's still breathing and walking.  
>"Sherlock?", he interrupts my thoughts impatiently. "Did you listen? Don't try to find me!" "Yes, yes I promise." I answer though everything in me aches to see him, to make sure this isn't dream.<br>"Okay." He takes a deep breath obviously relieved to have made his point clear. "Well, is there already a date for my funeral?" he asks after a short pause, falling into some type of chatting tone like this was a perfectly normal question.  
>I glance at the clock. "Yes, it'll start in about half an hour. I'm probably going to be late." A smile appears on my lips. I've just told someone I'm going to be late to his funeral.<br>John seems to think the same, because I hear him chuckle silently. "Be sure I'll haunt you for that..." He's interrupted by a beeping telling him that there isn't much time left to talk. Obviously he's using a phone box. That also explains the fact that he didn't call my mobile.  
>"Oh, I think I've run out of money... I'll call you back." Then we're disconnected.<br>I just stare at the phone for several moments. It's hard to believe what just happened. For some seconds I doubt myself, think that the phone call wasn't real, but just my imagination. I drop that thought quickly. No, my brain doesn't tend to make up things. You might say that talking to a skull is a sign for a tendency to outgrowing imagination, but it isn't because I don't think that the damn thing answers. I just like to think aloud, and this skull is a perfect excuse (at least I thought so when I got it. In truth most people seem to find it weirder when you talk to a skull than yourself.)


	10. Chapter 10

I end up being 15 minutes late for the funeral. Luckily, however, the priest hadn't arrived yet, nor had most of the guests, since Lestrade's the only one, waiting in front of chapel. He's yelling at his phone and it's easy to figure out he's talking to Anderson since his name is "mentioned" (or rather screamed) several times. When the DI finally hangs up I smile at him. "You haven't made Anderson organize this funeral, have you?" He glares at me, but doesn't bother to answer, since it's already perfectly clear to me. Wow that's going to be amusing! I hope John won't show up to see what his funeral is like; he'll be pretty disappointed.  
>The priest finally arrives at half past twelve (swearing he was ordered to come then) just as my brother, who obviously didn't trust Anderson and calls the graveyard administration to find out the real date. Of course he hasn't bothered to tell Lestrade or me, but has left us freezing in the cold. Especially Lestrade who has been here longer than me seems to be thankful when we are finally led into church (the relief on his face vanishes as soon as we step into the church because it isn't much warmer here; I'd even say a few degrees colder). We all take seats in the front row, though none of us really wants to. I manage to bring Lestrade between my brother and me, though the policeman doesn't seem too happy to be caught between us. The priest eyes us with a bit of suspicion before finally asking if we're expecting any other guests. Apparently three persons showing up at a funeral are quite few. I look at Lestrade since he's called the great organiser of this funeral recently (BTW, where is Anderson anyway?) and he mumbles something about Donovan being on a drug's bust and Anderson getting stuck in traffic.<br>A few other names pop up in my mind, but it seems a little bit late to call them. Maybe I should've given Anderson a list. On the other hand I like the thought of telling John how Anderson has messed up.  
>The priest asks whether we want to wait but, probably because of the coldness, both Lestrade and Mycroft shake their heads just as vehemently as me. I'm just desperately trying to get home and wait for another call of John. The priest starts speaking and gives a short biography of John, pointing out the great things he's done.<br>Normally these kinds of things are extremely boring to me, but since Anderson obviously made up some information, it's quite amusing:  
>The priest keeps calling John Jonathan, though I'm extremely sure that John's no abbreviation. He also points out the great things John (oops, Jonathan of course) did during Iraq war and in the jungle of Brasilia (I have no clue why Anderson came up with the later one) where he'd nearly lost his leg fighting a python (I can hardly keep myself from giggling at the thought of John wrestling with a snake) and had to be sent home. There had met his new best friend in London (of course the priest don't say "new best friend" but I think that's the best way to describe the relationship of John and Anderson he's talking about). When the priest starts to list all of the great things the two have done together (like arresting several serial killers and saving children from being murdered) I almost start to wonder if John has had a secret second life I didn't know about, since I actually can't imagine Anderson's fantasy to be this vivid.<br>While listening to the end of the story which is about John being killed because of the stupidity of a wannabe officer who always messes up their cases (I'm pretty sure that would be me, though no name's mentioned) I see with amusement that Lestrade has buried his face in his hand obviously ashamed for handing the organisation over to Anderson. "Oh, I'll kill him, when I see him for next time!" he whispers and I can't help a smile. Though I'm sure he won't, I'd love to see their next meeting.  
>I also glance at Mycroft just to find out that he isn't listening to anything the priest's saying but is staring at me. Oh, I really, really hate it to be watched by him all the time.<br>The need to have him turn away is so huge that I give him a reassuring "I'm-well"-smile. Since I don't have an experience with this kind of expression I'm not sure it worked, though I tend to think it didn't because of the frown stealing onto Mycroft's face.  
>I turn to the priest again following his blessings as a loud noise arises from the door. All of us flinch (the priest dropping the holy water) and turn to the door that has been slumped open. Against the relatively bright light I can see the silhouette of Anderson. He closes the door as quiet as possible and at least looks very embarrassed.<br>Lestrade shoots him an extremely angry look that would've probably killed him if looks could do such things.  
>While Anderson sits down in the row behind us the priest finishes the service.<br>He paces to the exit. While Mycroft and I fight silently for walking behind the other; him politely waiting for me to pass him and me ignoring his offer, Anderson tries so sneak out as fast and unseen as possible but is hold back by Lestrade. They instantly start to argue silently (or rather Lestrade starts to chastise Anderson) both not attempting to follow the priest though. As he has already passed half of the chapel Mycroft -having the best manners- follows him first. I wait moment longer hoping to get Lestrade and Anderson between us, but finally I give in and follow Mycroft. Lestrade and Anderson come behind us, still arguing (this time arguing is the right term because Anderson started to snap as well).  
>We leave the chapel and walk to the actual grave. It's really a walk because John's grave is as far from the entry as possible. We finally find it right next to the main street. "Nice spot" I can't keep myself from commenting. "Think he would've liked it... It's so ... quiet." I say just as a big truck rushes by. Anderson shoots me an angry look but doesn't respond.<br>The priest starts speaking again and Mycroft steps forward to do the obligatory earth toss. I was next, and swallowed as I stared down at the coffin. It might sound stupid (well, it definitely sounds stupid, especially coming from me) but I just realized that there had to be someone else lying in the coffin and felt in sudden urge to open it to make sure it wasn't John. 


	11. Chapter 11

It's been a long time since I visited a funeral, so I admit I'm surprised that we are going to have lunch afterwards. I actually thought it would be over after the coffin was buried, but then Mycroft asks me if I want to have a ride to the restaurant in his car. I decline his offer automatically but that doesn't help much, since some brilliant mind (Anderson of course) has the idea of us all sharing Lestrade's car. Actually no one (not even Anderson himself, -erg, he really is such an idiot) seems to be pleased with that decision, but none of us manages to find any arguments against it in time. I finally end up next to Anderson on the rear seat. We drive in silence after a few attempts to talk about John fail as not one of us (except for me) could tell anything about him. Anderson actually tries a "Do you remember...?" talk but it seems a little stupid since everything we could possibly remember has occurred less than a week ago. The restaurant organized turns out to have a large room (containing a table with about thirty chairs) just reserved for us and a buffet with enough food to feed an army. While Anderson keeps his eyes on the ground Lestrade and my brother frown. Finally Mycroft even turns to Anderson whom he hasn't talked to yet and asks:  
>"Um, you've been the one who organized this funeral, right?" Anderson still doesn't look up, reminding me of a schoolboy in front of the head teacher but nods. "So how many people did you invite?" Anderson's cheeks become red and he seems too embarrassed to reply. I think he doesn't need to anyway because we all figured out that he totally messed up. Maybe I should hire him for Mycroft's funeral if I had to organize it...<br>The other ones take dishes and I follow hesitantly, because I can think of a thousand better things I could do. Talking to John for example. On the other hand the lunch won't pass any faster if don't eat anything and I probably don't have to talk while I'm chewing. With that in the back of my mind I put as much onto my dish as possible gaining a skeptic look from my brother. I suppress a snort: Mycroft's attitude of caring becomes really annoying. I bet he would've looked at me in the same way if I hadn't taken any food. And seriously, though I've tried my best, Mycroft's dish is still containing more food than mine.  
>They all settle at the end of table away from the door and I give sitting down next to the door a serious thought, but finally decide that this won't help much and that Lestrade doesn't deserve to be let alone with Mycroft and Anderson.<br>Well, maybe he isn't too thankful for my company either, but let's pretend I'm doing that for higher reasons than avoiding an argument with Mycroft.

We eat in silence. Not even my brother tries to start a conversation though I remember him chatting at family meals all the time. I have just finished my first dish and try to figure out if eating another would render the meal longer or if it doesn't matter as the door opens. I feel my yaw dropping as I see who enters the room: It's Molly and her boyfriend (if you don't remember that's Jim Moriarty who likes to make people wear bombs). For a moment I'm too stunned to speak and can only look at the two. Molly seems to be uncomfortable, but not all frightened, which probably means she isn't wearing a bomb, but just doesn't like to be late. Moriarty is occupying the role of the nervous IT-man again. He's avoiding my eyes just as is logical after I "outed" him the last we've met.  
>"Um...we're...we're sorry to be late", Molly finally breaks the awkward silence. "We've just found out that John's funeral was today and Jim thought that it'd be nice of us to come..."<br>"Nice indeed", I mutter under my breath, though not load enough for anyone to hear. "I only met him once, but..." Jim continues, and I can't keep myself from interrupting.  
>"Twice." Though he must have expected this, Moriarty manages to look clearly puzzled.<br>"No, no, I think I only saw him at St. Barts, you remember?"  
>"Of course, I do", I snap. How can anyone question my memory? That's insulting! But well I think you can't expect good manner from a criminal. "But YOU seem to have forgotten our meeting at the pool..." "Pool?" Lestrade intervened, trying to understand what we were talking about. "The one that exploded?"<br>Annoyed I turn to him. "Of course this one! What other pool I would ever go to?"  
>"I don't know what you're talking about!" Jim exclaims. His eyes are fast shifting from me to my brother. He really knows how to use body languages; as it looks like he wants Mycroft to reassure him I'm not crazy.<br>"No?" I get onto him feet and take a few steps toward him. He instantly backs off and I enjoy the fear showing in his eyes despite I know it's faked.  
>"So you also don't remember making people wearing bombs?" "I don't know what you're talking about!", he repeats, panic in his voice.<br>I snort, and turn on my heels to Lestrade. "Arrest him!"  
>After that follows silence. Lestrade looks stunned as if not sure to believe me and arrest Moriarty or if to rather doubt my mental sanity. On my brother's face I can see a similar fight though much shorter and unfortunately won by the later one. "Sherlock", he says in a veeery soft voice like he's afraid speaking louder would make me freak out. "I know that this isn't an easy situation for you. The only person you actually cared since... well, ever, just died. I can understand you look for someone to blame but-" "I don't look for someone to blame!" I interrupt him harshly. "Do I really think I would make up a story like this?" For a split of a second I can see a flash of doubt in Mycroft's eyes. He knows that I never tended to make up fantastic stories but Moriarty's absolute convincing acting wins. My brother believes in the emotions he sees because he can normally tell real from faked ones. But that only works for normal people, less observant than us. Me, Moriarty and probably even Mycroft -though he's never been much of an actor- know what to look for and to act according to it. But Moriarty hasn't won yet and smile crosses my face. There is a piece of information he doesn't have, a piece that will prevent me from looking like a desperate fool. "I don't have to look for someone to blame because John isn't dead." The look on either Lestrade's and my brother's face tells me that I've been totally wrong: this makes look even more like someone who's lost his mind. Damn it! Why can't they just trust me?<br>I shoot Moriarty a short look, but there isn't even a triumphant smile or anything else that might have given him away. Instead he looks even more afraid. "And why do think he's still alive?" Lestrade finally manages to ask. "He called me" I answer instantly. Lestrade and Mycroft exchange a look clearly meaning "Now he's totally lost his mind!" Mycroft clears his throat. "Can we talk alone? In the room next door?" I shoot Moriarty a short look. "He'll escape then!" I protest, though not expecting to succeed. Maybe I really would be better to talk to Mycroft alone to persuade him. "Anderson can watch him" Lestrade suggests and turn after a very reluctant nod from Mycroft to Moriarty. "Would that be okay with you?" The man shrugs. "I just want this misunderstanding to be solved. I really don't have a clue what this man's talking about."


	12. Chapter 12

Though I'm pretty sure Mycroft doesn't want him to, Lestrade follows us.

I believe my brother intended to have a witness-less "family-talk", but of course he's too polite to send Lestrade away. As soon as he's closed the door he turns to me:"And you're sure, you didn't just imagine that?"

"Of course, I am", I snap back.

Why can't he see the game Moriarty is playing? And why does Lestrade hesitate to arrest him? Damn, he really could be more grateful for having the criminal on a silver plate. "Sherlock, look, it's not that I don't believe you... I think you really do believe you've talked to John, but he's dead, you know? He won't come back."

I can see that it hurts Mycroft to talk to me like this, to see me losing any bit of reasoning.

"I can prove it!" I exclaim sounding more desperate than I intended to. "Just look in the coffin. It's empty, or probably filled with another corpse, I don't know. But I DO know that it is not John in there!"

"Sherlock that's ridiculous!" Mycroft, this time starting to sound angry. "Why didn't you come up with that before the coffin was buried? We could've taken a look then."

I shift uncomfortably, he's partly right. I should've told them that John's still alive before, but somehow the thought didn't even cross my mind.

"I don't know", I say lamely and then turn to Lestrade looking straight into his eyes. "All I ask of you is to arrest this man for a few hours. John promised to call me back and I'm pretty sure he will this evening. Just give me this one chance. If he hasn't called until six o'clock, you can set Moriarty free and apologize if you want. Tell him I picked the wrong one or something."

Lestrade shifts uncomfortably. I can see he doesn't believe me, but secretly wants to. He's just opened the mouth to speak (from his body languages I'd say he wants to give in to me), but Mycroft anticipates him.

"I've got a better suggestion: We let him walk away telling him that you've been mistaken and apologize. But we keep track of him. You know I've got ways to follow him."

I open my mouth to protest, to tell that he might be able to keep track of any normal person, but not this criminal mastermind. But I decide against it. I know I wouldn't change his mind anyway, that's probably the best I can get, especially since it doesn't contain visiting a psychiatrist.

Besides, Moriarty probably has ways to escape being arrested. If I really want to catch him, it has to be me who set up the situation, or at least I must know his whole plan.

"But I won't apologize" I add and walk out of the room, straight to the exit. No one holds me back, and I'm grateful.

While waiting for a cab to show up I silently curse myself. Moriarty has won again. He went straight into the lion's den, and got out without a single scratch.


	13. Chapter 13

**First of all, thanks for all the reviews I've got!  
>I really appreaciate to read what people like and dislike about this story :)<strong>

**Speaking of thanking, of course, a big Thank you to my beta, too!**

**So, i hope you'll enjoy this "double-post" as the 12th chapter jsut seemed to be very short ;)**

**PS: As it was criticized in several reviwes I'll try to pay more attention to line spacing...  
><strong>

* * *

><p>John was drifting somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness. He felt he was getting closer to the surface. He also knew that there would probably be pain but he didn't fight. Because fighting it would only make it happen even faster.<p>

But finally -maybe seconds, maybe hours later- he broke through the surface and was pushed into consciousness.  
>Automatically he opened his eyes, regretting it instantly: He saw straight into bright white light. Pain rushed through his head and he closed his eyes again. He took a few deep breaths and decided to take some time to check himself.<p>

To his surprise -and relief- he discovered that he felt no real pain besides that coming from the unbearable brightness that was already fading. Neither his arms nor his legs hurt, not even as he -successfully- tried to move them. He took another deep breath to check his lung and his ribs. There was a short twitching pain, but nothing too bad. He'd felt worse, way worse, and that several times.

He finally decided to carefully open his eyes again, a crack at least.  
>After a few seconds they'd gotten used to the bright light and he could -for the first time- see the room he lay in. Truth to be told he'd expected some kind of hospital room or a military tent, even though he remembered quitting army service.<p>

But now he was in a room reminding him of a chemistry lab: He could see thousands of small bottles containing coloured liquids.  
>To his surprise he discovered that he wasn't lying in a bed, but on a table only covered with a blanket. Slowly he straightened up, his movements becoming faster and more determined as there was still no pain.<br>He'd just got himself into a sitting position as the door opened. With a frown he realized that he could hear the sound of a key, what meant the door had been locked before. A small smile crossed his face. Sherlock would be proud to hear he'd deduced this.

Right, Sherlock... Where was he? What had happened? John concentrated; images started wildly rushing through his mind, just to be interrupted by someone coming in. By the sight of this man, John's memory instantly returned: It was Moriarty.

Emotions rushed over him, fear mixed with anger and hate, making him want to run away and jump at Moriarty at the same time.  
>Only the fact that he'd been trained to stay calm in such situations half of his life kept him from taking any of those actions.<p>

The only thing he did was straightening up in order to be on eye level with Moriarty. The Consulting Criminal just watched him silently. A small smile was playing around his lips, but that was just as likely to be acting as being a true emotion he was unable to hide.

"Where am I?" John finally asked, as Moriarty didn't attempt to explain. The smile on his lips expanded.

"What do you think?" John frowned and looked more closely. Though similar, the lab wasn't part of St. Bart's, and was too old to be built after his time.  
>As John didn't say anything, Moriarty finally answered.<p>

"It's a school lab. To be precise the one Sherlock spend most of his childhood in. I thought it would be a great to leave your corpse here if you hadn't made it, but your injuries has been much less serious than everyone thought... I must say I'm really thankful for that."

"So you'll be able to kill me in a more painful way?" John snapped. The hate was prevailing. He felt its heat, pulsing within him like he never did before. Truth to be told he suspected he'd never actually hated anyone. Of course, there were some people he disliked but hate normally wasn't part of his range of feelings. He even felt the ache to hurt Moriarty though he'd never enjoyed hurting people. Of course he'd done if necessary (he'd been in a soldier after all) but only because it had to be done and not because the pain of others pleased him.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk" Moriarty made, sounding disapproving as John didn't seem to catch the whole expand of his plan. "That's not about you, Johnny boy!" His voice had turned in the insanely high, crazy tone, he had already used at the pool. "It's all about our dear friend Sherlock Holmes."

John didn't comment on that, though Moriarty paused. There wasn't any point in shouting at him. All it would do was increasing Moriarty's joy.  
>As John didn't say anything, Moriarty decided to continue.<br>"You probably wonder, why I brought you here... I suppose you know what happened at the pool?" John nodded curtly.  
>"Well, you've been unconscious for about two days, though that was mostly due to medicine and not injury. You've been lucky, by the way. Got hit by some debris, but no bones have been broken and the head injuries mainly caused blood lost but no brain damage."<p>

Though he didn't show any reaction, John was slightly shocked to hear how long he'd been passed out. Two days! Why hadn't anyone looked for him? Or, well, found him?

As if Moriarty had been able to read his thought on his straight face, the criminal said: "Everyone thinks you're dead though. It's almost amusing how easy it was to get you out of the hospital and a corpse there instead. But that isn't important as you might agree. The only thing important two you is the plan I have for you: You are going to kill Sherlock Holmes."

Moriarty looked at John intensively waiting for the impact of his words. John's first reaction was shock -that he was able to not show on his face- and then disbelief. How could Moriarty expect that he'd do that? He would rather die than killing an innocent (though maybe innocent was the most fitting term for Sherlock), let alone a friend what Sherlock despite what he said to Bastian was to him.

"You can't force me into doing that and you know it!" John's voice wasn't as calm as he would have liked to be but nonetheless there was a certain determination that proved he was telling the truth. Moriarty only raised an eyebrow.

"Can't I? I know you'd never kill him if only your life's at stake. But dying yourself isn't an option here, my dear friend."

"And what is an option?" John finally asked as Moriarty made no attempt to continue.

"The one option is killing Sherlock. And the other is the death of your sister." 


	14. Chapter 14

"The only thing important two you is the plan I have for you: You are going to kill Sherlock Holmes."

Moriarty looked at John intensively waiting for the impact of his words.  
>John's first reaction was shock -that he was able to not show on his face- and then disbelief. How could Moriarty expect that he'd do that? He would rather die than killing an innocent (though maybe innocent was the most fitting term for Sherlock), let alone a friend what Sherlock despite what he said to Bastian was to him.<p>

"You can't force me into doing that and you know it!" John's voice wasn't as calm as he would have liked to be but nonetheless there was a certain determination that proved he was telling the truth. Moriarty only raised an eyebrow.

"Can't I? I know you'd never kill him if only your life's at stake. But dying yourself isn't an option here, my dear friend."

"And what is an option?" John finally asked as Moriarty made no attempt to continue.

"The one option is killing Sherlock. And the other is the death of your sister."

John felt his yaw drop. "You can't do that!" he shouted regretting his words instantly as they sounded like the ones of a child unable to accept the truth.

Moriarty started giggling. "Do you still believe in good? You've been to war, so you should know better. Or do you think you could stop me, what is just as stupid?"

John didn't bother to answer; he already knew that it was impossible to stop Moriarty from getting anything he wanted.

As Moriarty realized that there was little chance to bring John to another stupid comment, he continued speaking:  
>"As you might agree it is pointless to argue what I'm able to make happen. Here are my rules for our little game: You have a week to kill Sherlock.<br>If you don't manage -or refuse- to murder him within this time, I'll make sure your sister dies.  
>You may try to protect her but know that this won't help you. You can even go to the police, if you like. Actually I would even prefer you did, as this is will show you how impossible it is to defeat me. I'll set you free after our conversation and give you back your gun, but you're allowed to use anything you want to kill Sherlock. After you've been set free there are no restrictions. You can walk straight to the police, or to Sherlock, but be aware that your time will be reduced to 24 hours when you meet Sherlock. You may contact him though, without the deadline changing."<p>

John listened closely, frowning at the changing deadline. "Why do you reduce my time to 24 hours after meeting him? You could say that it is 24 hours right from the start."

Moriarty smiled. "Because I'm sure you contact him as soon as you get out. Actually you have to for two reasons: first, you want to save him from his misery, and second, his finding a way to defeat me is the only chance you have. Of course you could try on your own, but we both know there isn't a trace of a chance that you'll successful."

Moriarty looked right into John's face, probably hoping for any sign of approval for his deduction but John didn't do him the favor. What had Sherlock once said? The weakness of the genius was they needed audience.

"That you contact him means he will want to see you. If I would set the time limit on 24 hours right from the start there's nothing what would keep you from meeting right away. But with this "variable" deadline you have to stay away from each for six days if you want time to plan your steps. And -believe me- if you want to have any chance to beat you'll need any time you get."

John couldn't stop his expression from darkening. Moriarty's plan was well figured out and he knew that this "variable deadline" was only to make them suffer. Suddenly John realized that this was what was really fun to Moriarty. He didn't enjoyed killing or watching physical pain. He enjoyed defeating people, and, by any means, he wanted them to shatter and then - when they'd given up - he would set the final blow, as they had become boring to him.

"When does my time start?" John asked bluntly. He couldn't stand talking to this man much longer and needed to think. He could neither kill Sherlock nor let Moriarty kill his sister. Both interfered with the ideal he'd always lived for.  
>There just had to be another way!<p>

Moriarty glanced at his clock. "In about ten minutes. I thought it be easier for you to let it begin on a full hour since that eases calculating. Until that I will answer your questions if there are any."

First John hoped Moriarty would just go away if he didn't ask anything, but as the criminal sat down on a chair, he had to let this hope go. First John considered staying silent, but some voice (suspiciously sounding like Sherlock) told him that he had to size the chance to get as much information as possible.

"What if I refuse to kill Sherlock, and you can't reach my sister? Would that mean there's any other person close to me in danger or would you simply give up?"

Moriarty chuckled silently. "I do never give up, Johnny boy. But in this -rather unlikely- case, I wouldn't go for anyone else instead. But be sure that I'd get your sister sooner or later. You don't have a clue how big my network really is and I'll find her anywhere even if she hides in some caves in Libya."

John reluctantly nodded though he didn't trust Moriarty by any means he was sure the other man was telling the truth.  
>"What if you kill her? I don't suppose you would stop going for Sherlock after that."<p>

A smile appeared on Moriarty's face. "Of course I won't."

John frowned. "So I'd gain nothing if I decide to let you kill my sister? That's hardly a fair deal!"

John didn't expect to have his appeal on fairness to have any other effect than making Moriarty laugh and tell him how stupid he was to believe in such ideals. But a frown appeared on the criminal's face.  
>"Know what? I've got my generous day today. I promise you two things to improve our game: First, I won't kill Sherlock until I killed Harriet, second in any event that might occur I won't kill you."<br>He glanced at his clock. "I better go... Here!"

He tossed the gun over in John's direction who managed to catch it though Moriarty obviously attempted to throw it on the ground. John's hands acted without much thinking. He had been in military service and he knew to seize an opportunity when it occurred.  
>It only took him two seconds to release the safety. His look found Moriarty who starred at the gun kind of frozen. The criminal was about five meters from the door. Too far to escape.<p>

John knew that he had a few moments before Moriarty would be released from his shock and seized it to decide on the target. If he'd been a police officer he would've probably aimed for the leg or the arm, but as a soldier his training hadn't been focused on none life threatening injuries. It hadn't been focused on deadly ones either, though he would've probably chosen one when he had to decide without time left to think.  
>Though it conflicted with his moral he let his anger get the better of him and aimed on Moriarty's head. For the split of the second he saw fear in Moriarty's eyes, then he pulled the trigger.<p>

There was a clicking sound but nothing more. Moriarty started laughing and John could keep himself from scowling.

"You really did think I would give you a loaded gun, while I'm still in the room?"

John starred down to the ground feeling embarrassed. Of course Moriarty would never been that stupid.

"Well, your time starts in five minutes. The door is electronically locked so it will open exactly at eleven o'clock."

Just before Moriarty left, another question crossed John's mind. He didn't think Moriarty's offer to answer his questions was still intact but he thought it was worth a try.

"How exactly did you fake my death?"

A smile appeared on Moriarty's face. "I already had an ambulance set up. They exchanged you for another corpse. I also bought a doctor to talk to Sherlock, his brother and the police to make sure they wouldn't be asking about your gunshot wound or something like that."

John sighed. It seemed like Moriarty had a plan for every opportunity arriving.

"And who did the identification?"

Moriarty's smile widened. "Lestrade did."

John felt his jaw dropping. "Lestrade?"

"You can look it up in the medical reports. But don't be too upset! Looks like someone has stolen his ID."


	15. Chapter 15

I feel nervous. I keep walking up and down much like a caged tiger, turning to the phone every time I hear some noise from the street - mistaking it for a ring.  
>I glance at the clock several times a minute and time passes so agonizingly slowly that I'm sure the clock must be broken.<br>Nearly five hours (or more accurately four hours forty-nine minutes and twenty-seven seconds) have passed since John has called.

I know for sure he didn't ring while I was away, since the phone didn't show any missed calls and Mrs. Hudson ensured me she hadn't heard it going off. Though I don't like to admit it, I'm worried. I don't remember having felt this way before, but I can't help picturing John in all kinds of dangerous, life-threatening situations?

I desperately want to look for him, but my promise and the fact I don't have a clue where he could be stop me. I don't even have a theory that would pass as likely correct, because I just don't have enough information! After my meeting with Moriarty I'm sure that he is responsible for John's faked death, as I've now realized that he is the only one who could possibly set this up.

I absently reach for a pack of nicotine patches and open it.

Moriarty has probably taken John's money and cell phone away, since John used a phone box to call me and was obviously short on money. That means John has to get cash.

But where could he go to get it? John certainly doesn't have many contacts here, so he has limited options. I'm certain he won't go to Mike, since he wants to keep his position secret from me. The same goes for Sarah. The only other person he could possibly turn to is his sister, but I doubt he's desperate enough for that. Furthermore, he probably wouldn't go to her, likely expecting her to be at the funeral.

I've just begun to wonder if I should call Mike or Sarah as my mobile starts ringing. I twitch and hurry to get it out of my pocket. I almost pressed the button instantly, but at the last moment decide to take a deep breath. John doesn't have to know how desperate I am to talk to him. I glimpse at the number, realizing it's a mobile number I don't know. Interesting, he obviously managed to get some money...

Once more I pick up without saying a word.

We're met by several seconds of silence, and then John starts cursing.

"Oh, Sherlock! When did you start that annoying habit?"

A smile crosses my face but I manage to sound completely matter-of-factly. "I just want to use my time effectively. That means I give up completely unnecessary behavior."


	16. Chapter 16

It took John about half an hour to get onto the street.

The school (he really had been at a school lab) had proven to have a quite complicated system of corridors, and it had been hard to find a door that wasn't locked or likely to set off some sort of alarm. Luckily, he had finally found an open classroom and left through the window, which had thankfully been directed at the playground rather than the street, so he hadn't had to face an interrogation as to why he'd been in the school on a Saturday...

Or was it already Sunday? Moriarty said he had been unconsciousness for two days, but since he'd passed out late evening and woken up in the morning, he wasn't sure if Moriarty had meant one and a half or two and a half days.

John automatically reached in his pocket to check his mobile, but much to his dismay he discovered it was gone. Further examination of his pockets showed that he had also lost his wallet. Silently cursing, he fished about his pockets, trying to produce loose coins in the bottom of his jeans pockets. He didn't have to do much counting to realize the money wasn't enough for taxi (even if he'd just wanted to get a ride to the next corner).

He sighed and leaned on a nearby wall, trying to figure out what to do next. He thought through his situation: A criminal mastermind had kidnapped him and wanted to force him to kill his flatmate, before said criminal could kill his sister. Now he was free, but had barely any money, and -as he realized looking at his surroundings- no clue where he was.

He was pretty sure that he hadn't left London, but the street didn't seem familiar to him. As he felt the urge to do something, he started walking, hoping to find an underground station or something like that.

Finally he found a phone box. He stopped and hesitated shortly as he realized he was just about to do exactly what Moriarty expected him to. He briefly considered to keep his "rebirth" secret, but had to admit Moriarty had been right:  
>If anyone could come up with a plan to outsmart the criminal, it had to be Sherlock.<p>

John neither knew Sherlock's mobile number by heart, nor was he able to recall the landline's. There was a phone book in the box but unfortunately there wasn't an entry for "Holmes, Sherlock". John cursed silently as he didn't have enough money to call anyone who might know the Consulting Detective's number first.

He felt a sudden jolt of frustration and started skipping through the phone book hoping to get some inspiration what he could do. He finally stopped when he found Mrs. Hudson's number. A smile appeared on his face as he remembered that -living in the same house- the number of his and Sherlock's flat only differed by one number.  
>Hoping his memory served him right he produced the coins from his pockets and began to dial.<p> 


	17. Chapter 17

After the conversation with Sherlock, John felt more or less confident. The Consulting Detective had promised not to look for him, though John wasn't sure if he could really count on that. But at least he knew Sherlock would be busy attending the funeral, so he wouldn't have to worry about hiding for the next few hours.

Maybe Sherlock would even agree with staying away after John had lain down his reasons.  
>Of course, there was still the question of what to do next. Like before, John started consulting the phone book and finally found the address of his sister. With a twitch of guilt he realized he hadn't known it by heart.<p>

The only other option that appearing reasonable for him was walking to the New Scotland Yard and asking for some kind of protection for Harriet, but since his sister's apartment was closer he decided on going there.  
>Furthermore it was weekend (that he knew for sure, despite not having solved the SaturdaySunday problem yet) so there was little chance that Lestrade would be at his office anyway.

When John arrived at the apartment he had already prepared himself for hours of waiting in the cold, as the funeral had just begun. Moriarty hadn't given him a cloak or anything else capable of keeping him warm and he was already freezing.

First he sat down on the sidewalk, but it proved too cold to stay there for much more than a few minutes.  
>He stood up again and walked over to the door. Starring at the doorbell panel he just started to wonder if anyone else in the house might have his sister's key when the door opened. For a few seconds he was too surprised to speak, as it was Harriet who just rushed past him.<p>

Automatically he reached for her arm to hold her back. She stumbled, and have fallen if John hadn't managed to steady her.

"Let go of me!" she exclaimed and tried to free herself, then she recognized John. "Oh it's you" she stated, her voice turning cold. "What do you want?"

"I... I..." John splattered. That wasn't quite the reaction he had expected. He had thought he would have to explain why he still was alive or something like that. "You're not surprised to see me?" he finally managed to ask.

She shot him a suspicious look. "Of course I'm surprised. I didn't expect you to even know my address, though I told you several times."

"You ... you didn't think I was dead?" John asked, trying to understand.  
>Had Moriarty lied? No, Sherlock himself had told him that his funeral was today.<p>

"No, I haven't thought that. Though that seems very likely, regarding the fact you always manage to get yourself in danger." The way she looked at him was so cold he instantly knew what she was referring to, and he swallowed. She had always accused him for the worries he had caused their mother, though he didn't think she'd done much better, considering her drinking.

"What do you want here?" she repeated glancing at her watch.

"Money and a mobile would do so far." It was supposed to be a joke, but John instantly knew he'd gone too far. Wild fury washed over Harry's face and the way her lips trembled told him she was going to scream. He was right.

"NOW YOU'RE COMING TO ME FOR HELP? John, I've already given you a phone if I remember right." As she shouted right into his face he could suddenly smell the alcohol she'd tried to hide with chewing gum "And how often have you called me? Zero times! You didn't even answer my calls! Tell me. What mess have you gotten yourself into now? What's so bad you're coming to me? It must be HORRIBLE."

"It is, let-" John tried to defend himself, but he didn't even manage to finished before she interrupted him.

"Know what? I don't want to hear it! If you want to keep to your own, do. But don't expect any help from me!" Then she turned around, her hair flying dramatically as she stalked to her car.

For an instant John stood there on the sidewalk perfectly still before he ran after his sister and grabbed her arm again. "Wait! It's more important than you think it is!"

"LET GO OF ME!" she screamed, making some people passing by look at them.

"Listen, I know it sounds dramatic, but it's a matter of life and death!" he whispered, trying to sound calm and shooting some of the onlookers an apologizing look.

"I only need" he had wanted to say 'to talk to you' but she finished before him.

"My help? HERE!" With her free hand she reached for her mobile phone and threw it at him. The strength of the throw was surprising, and most other men would've stumbled back, but the years of military service had taught him to keep grip of prisoners. Harry tossed to free herself, but couldn't manage to break John's hold of her arm.

And then she took the only other option available:  
>"HELP!" she screamed so loud that John's ears started ringing. "THIS MAN WANTS TO ROB ME! HELP!"<p>

Before John could say or do anything to his defence, a group of three men decided to take action. They probably wouldn't have helped had they been on their own, but the strength of numbers had made them confident.

"HEY, what ya doin' with the Lady?" One of them exclaimed, making it quite clear with his body language that he was eager to beat John up. The other ones didn't even wait for an answer as they began to throw punches at him.

John automatically dropped to the ground to dodge the hits. He let go of Harry's arm and saw that her legs moving toward her car.  
>He allowed himself a short curse before focusing on the men again. He was lying on the ground, but managed to turn that into an advantage as he could get hold of some legs and bring one man to fall.<p>

The others were surprised for an instant, and John wondered if he could manage to knock them all out. He wondered a moment to long and a boot hit his side. Hard. He felt the air being pressed out of his lungs and hot pain rushing through him. No, he realized, he probably couldn't defeat them without ending up either at the police station or the hospital.

Avoiding another kick he managed to grab his sister's mobile, which fortunately no one had stepped on, and put it in his pocket, running away as fast as he could, doing his best to ignore the pain in his ribs.


	18. Chapter 18

The men fortunately had been too surprised by his sudden flight to follow John. Glancing over his shoulder he could see they were trying to keep sight of him for several seconds, but as soon as he managed to disappear in a group of tourists, they shrugged and turned away.

John followed the tourists until he could slip into a shopping centre. Breathing heavily, he sank onto a bench. Though he had hardly run more than a hundred yards he was panting, and every breath sent agonizing pain through his injured side.

He glanced around, suddenly realizing that the shopping centre was almost empty, as most shops were closed. At least he now knew it was Sunday.  
>Carefully he lifted his shirt and took a look at his side. The skin had already started changing colour and he could see it was slightly swollen.<br>Slowly he put his fingers on the spot and carefully pushed in order to find out if anything was broken.

That was quiet a bad idea. Nearly as soon as his fingers touched his lowest rip, he felt like something within him exploded. Pain whose source he was unable to detect rushed through him and his sight faded. It took him all his will to withstand the urge to scream, knowing that would only make it worse.

For an amount of time that could have been hours as far as he could tell, he sat perfectly still only trying to keep himself from breathing to hard. The strategy proved to be effective, as the pain finally started to fade and he slowly regained his sight.

"You ok?" John slowly lifted his head trying to avoid any sudden movement and saw the face of a woman who looked at him worryingly.

"Yeah...I'm ... fine," he managed to say, knowing his voice was sounding weak. At the last word he had to cough and couldn't help twitching as it sent an agonizing pain through his whole body.

"You don't look fine", the woman said hesitantly now glancing at his side, which wasn't fully covered.

Why couldn't she just go away? The last thing he needed was a trip to the hospital.

"I'm fine, really" His voice sounded harsh and he managed to pull the shirt down again. The woman still didn't seem convinced, but obviously John's hardness had made it clear that he didn't want any help.

"Whatever you say" she said in an annoyed voice and turned away.

If he hadn't known the amount of pain it would cause him, John probably would've probably called after the woman to apologize. She had only wanted to help after all.

John decided to rest on the bench a few minutes longer, and carefully leaned his head at the wall behind him. He suddenly felt tired and it was hard to keep his eyes open, and he finally gave into the urge to close them. Just two minutes. At this moment he would've thought that staying there forever and never move again was a decent option to spend the rest of his life.

He must have fallen asleep, because as he opened his eyes again the sky, he could see through the glass roof was black and the lights had already been turned on. Disorientated he glanced around trying to find what had woken him. It turned out to be Harry's mobile, which had received a text.  
>Frowning, he opened it. "Dear Ms. Watson", it read, "We are sorry to inform you that your brother was killed in an explosion three days ago. DI Anderson"<p>

To his surprise John found Sherlock's mobile number stored in his sister's mobile. The contact was saved as 'Creepy Wannabe Detective'.  
>A smile crossing his face John pressed the button and the phone started dialing.<p>

While listening to the familiar ringing John started to wonder if Sherlock had chosen to ignore the unknown number, then he finally heard a rustling sound.  
>It was followed by silence and it took John several seconds to remember Sherlock's new habit of remaining silent when answering the phone. A small curse escaped his lips as he suppressed a sigh.<p>

"Oh, Sherlock! When did you start that annoying habit?"

"I just want to use my time effectively. That means I give up completely unnecessary behaviour."  
>Typical of Sherlock.<p>

"It is not unnecessary. It's polite", he argued even though he already knew it was a lost cause. Not for the first time John wondered what Sherlock's parents had done, when they were supposed to teach their son good behaviour. Apparently they'd managed with Mycroft.

"Polite is a synonym for unnecessary", Sherlock pointed out, sounding annoyed by the fact that no one but himself seemed to get that.  
>"Whatever you say", John sighed, making a mental note to lecture the Detective about the usefulness of being polite the next time Sherlock screwed up an interrogation by insulting the suspect. Or an authority, for that matter.<p>

"You still owing me an explanation", Sherlock pointed out, reminding John painfully of what was really going on. Oh, how could he forget that, even for a few seconds? Forget that there were lives at stake.

"Well...I'm not sure... where to start..." he muttered.

How could he tell Sherlock Moriarty wanted to force him, John, to kill the Consulting Detective?  
>He was pretty sure Sherlock wouldn't take any offense as he trusted him enough to be sure that John would never do that. But suddenly John wasn't that sure himself. Of course he resented the very thought of killing Sherlock, but part of him -a very rational part- told him that not killing Sherlock wouldn't do any good as Moriarty wouldn't stop going after Sherlock (which would probably result in Sherlock's death) and in addition his sister would get killed<p>

"John?" Sherlock's voice actually sounded worried and John realized he had kept silent for several moments. "You're alright?"

"Of course" he muttered, though he felt the absolute opposite. He cleared his throat. "Don't you want to tell me about the funeral first?"

John only posed this question to win some time to think. Actually he didn't want to know anything about the funeral, because after Anderson's text he was fairly sure that it had been a pretty poor event. And no matter how hard he tried to remind himself that it was for real, it still hurt.

John realized Sherlock hesitated several seconds, likely spending them trying to figure out if it was worth the effort to argue. Apparently it wasn't:  
>"Alright. Do you want to know who Anderson invited?" Sherlock's voice had become mocking. Probably he liked the thought of Anderson messing up.<p>

"Can't be too many, since he apparently didn't even inform my family", noted John kind of bitterly.

He didn't even need to hear Sherlock's typical now-I-have-the-information-I-was-looking-for gasp to realize that he'd given away his position. Well, not his concrete position, but a radius little enough for Sherlock to find him.  
>It would take the Consulting Detective only a few minutes to rule out his parents as dead if he didn't already know.<p>

For a moment there was silence, then John cleared his throat. (What was a pretty dead idea as his ribs started hurting again.)  
>"Maybe we should skip small talk to the why-you-shouldn't-come-to-find-me-part?" he asked successfully keeping the pain out of his voice.<p>

"That might be better", Sherlock agreed.

There was another pause as John wasn't quite sure what to begin with.  
>"Well, as you might already know, Moriarty abducted me after what has happened on the pool" John finally said.<p>

"I figured that after he showed up at your funeral dinner..." Sherlock confirmed.

"Well, and when I woke up-" John stopped as the full expand of Sherlock's words stroke him. "Wait, Moriarty was at my funeral? What did he want?" He felt his heart rate increasing, and thought started racing through his head. Had Moriarty wanted to kill Sherlock? Or anyone else? Sarah? Had he gotten something wrong about the dead line?

"Celebrate his victory, I suppose. You were talking about your abduction?" Sherlock paused shortly. "And, John, could you please stop using "well" all the time? Your sentences work just as well without it."

Under every other circumstances John would've probably rolled his eyes at this comment and made a mental note to take the new "time saving" of the Consulting Detective more seriously, but now he barely listened.  
>What had Moriarty wanted at the funeral? And, more important, why had he been willing to take such a risk? John felt his hand trembling.<br>More than ever before it came suddenly clear that there was nothing that could protect one from Moriarty.

"I", he began but felt that he wouldn't be able to continue. He couldn't tell Sherlock about Moriarty's plan; not as long as he didn't have a clue what he might be capable of doing. He needed time. "Just don't look for me."

He barely heard Sherlock protesting vehemently while he tried to disconnect with still shaking fingers. The world around him got blurred and he was breathing so heavily that the pain in his chest seemed to tear him apart. Just before he blacked out he managed to stuff the phone back in his pocket, knowing it was buzzing desperately to get his attention.


	19. Chapter 19

I stare at the phone, trying to make sense of what has just happened.  
>Automatically I push the button to redial, thoughts rushing through my head as I listen to the unanswered ringing.<p>

Why the hell has John disconnected so abruptly? I'm pretty sure that it wasn't my fault, though I know I have a problem with social skills.

Did I say something that insulted him? I skip through the conversation. No, not really. Okay, there was my comment about his annoyingly frequent use of "Well", but I'm pretty sure he's gotten so used to such statements that he barely notices them at all.

Another possibility is that he was forced to disconnect. Since there's no reason (or at least I can't see one, which is as good as "there isn't") for him to just hang me up that might occur as the most likely possibility, but he just didn't sound that way.

Of course, unlike Mycroft, I do consider the possibility I've been tricked sometimes, but I'm sure that I know John too well to be fooled by him at least as long as he didn't have any time to prepare. Besides, he probably would have wanted me to know if someone forced him so he wouldn't have put much effort in acting.

So he has disconnected on free will. But still, why? He has seemed kind of reluctant have of the conversation, but on the other hand HE called ME. So he was probably okay with talking to me and telling what has happened since that night at the pool first.  
>That bloody night. It ruined everything.<p>

The only possibility is that he has changed his mind while we were talking.  
>As I didn't give much reason to do so (or at least, I think so), and I have ruled out that some third party has forced him, he must not have acted on a rational base. And what brings people to acting on a non rational base? Emotions, strong emotions.<p>

Since he seemed to have developed them while talking to me, I probably triggered emotions that made him stop telling me everything. The normal reason why people would act that way toward persons they care for (I think it's pretty safe to assume John does) is that they either want to protect them or feel guilt toward them.

But what would John to protect me from? He knows I can take care of myself, and I would probably be safer if I knew what I have to face. So it has to be some kind of guilt. But again why? What could he possibly have done or be going to do?

The thoughts rushing through my head take barely more than a few seconds to repeat themselves to make sure I didn't miss something. And just like before my conversation with John, I come to reason that I've got a lack of information. But unlike back then I know now how to fix it.

As John still hasn't answered the phone now I give up the hope he will and disconnect.  
>Instead I start writing a text. Normally I only use texts to give orders, since there isn't any back talk or need to use verbage, but to get information talking is better since it takes most people awful long to answer. Especially with John.<p>

_What happened?_ I press 'send'. Then I put my phone back into my pocket. Despite my previous behaviour I'm well aware that John won't answer any faster if I keep starring at it. Instead I reach for the nearest laptop -turns out to be John's- and wait impatiently for it to boot up.

Finally, the start display pops up and asks me to enter the password.  
>A short look on the keyboard tells me John has changed it recently, since that is the only reason he could've possibly used the key combination for ß.<br>It's actually a great plan to use a random word in German, but maybe he shouldn't have pressed the keys right after eating...

There are only few words I know containing ß so John probably knows even less.  
>I skip through "Straße", "heißen", "Gruß" and some others before finally coming to the only one making some sense on its own.<p>

S - p - a - ß I type in and can't help a satisfied smile when the Computer accepts.  
>Fun. Why the hell did John think that would be the last word I'd be able to figure out?<br>Well, considering the fact that he doesn't approve my new way to answer phone calls "Gruß" is probably going to be the next one.

Then, I stop being sentimental about John's password and open the browser instead.  
>Within seconds I've gotten access to some governmental servers and check the address of John's sister.<p>

Gladstone Ave. Maybe half an hour away.  
>I get to my feet and grab my coat.<p> 


	20. Chapter 20

it hadn't been Sunday, Lestrade would've gone to the New Scotland Yard right after the funeral , but neither having a case, nor being on stand by, he had no excuse but to go home.  
>He knew he normally complained along with the other officers that there wasn't any free time left in their job, but right now he would've welcomed the distraction.<p>

He didn't want to think about Sherlock losing his reasoning, and even less about the possibility that Sherlock was still was perfectly reasonable and he, Lestrade, had just missed the opportunity to arrest one of the most dangerous criminal mastermind's of the 21st century.  
>Lestrade wondered what he would've done, if Mycroft hadn't been there to take responsibility out of his hands.<p>

Cursing silently he realized that there still wasn't a car park, despite turning round the block for the third time. Not only was London traffic a mess, but the parking situation was worse.

Turning right again, he spotted an empty parking spot, only to see it taken by one of his neighbours, who always seemed to arrive the crucial seconds before him. Cursing, he hit the steering wheel angrily, though he was well aware that this wouldn't change anything. He finally gave up and decided to use the car park of the nearby shopping centre, trying not to think about how much it would cost.

As it was Sunday evening, he had no problems finding a parking spot there, and he was pathetically delighted to get out of the car and hear the sound of its door being locked.

He already knew he would regret parking here when he had to hurry through the rain tomorrow morning, but now even going through the precinct seemed appealing to him like, he had to see some normal people with normal lives after being stuck with the Holmes brothers half of the day.

But the hopes to pretend to have an ordinary life were instantly shattered as he entered the shopping centre that he had to pass in order to get to his apartment.  
>Lestrade normally would've walked by without noticing. His glance passed the person lying on the bench and all he thought was that it just one of the homeless people who was probably drunk.<p>

He was just about to turn away when he noticed the man seemed awfully familiar to him.  
>Lestrade stopped to take a closer look... At first he couldn't believe it. It was impossible. John Watson was lying on the bench. He was supposed to be dead and already buried. And yet he was here.<p>

If Sherlock hadn't insisted on John's still being alive, Lestrade probably would've doubted his eyes, but now it just seemed to be something he should've expected.

Unable to move, Lestrade continued staring at the doctor, trying to comprehend what it meant. Sherlock had told the truth concerning his flat mate.  
>Then it suddenly hit Lestrade that John was laying there. Not sitting. Laying.<p>

The DI felt that his hands started to tremble at the possibility that John's reincarnation wasn't something permanent, and he hurried over to the doctor.  
>The first thing he recognized was -much to his relief- John was still breathing. In general the doctor didn't seem as close to death as Lestrade had feared from the distance.<p>

Carefully he shook John shoulder. At first the doctor didn't react, then his eye lids started fluttering halfheartedly, and a moan escaped his lips.  
>Finally, John's eyes focused on Lestrade.<p>

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked. The doctor closed his eyes shortly, like he had to give that a thought first. He drained a deep breath, then scowled and twisted like it had caused him pain.

Worry rose in Lestrade again, and he wished he could've done anything to help John, or least be able to tell how badly the doctor was injured. Automatically he reached forward to steady Sherlock's flatmate, but John just shook his head.

"I'm fine", he murmured in a voice too weak to be believable. He seemed to realize that himself as the doctor cleared his throat and repeated the word more determinedly. "I AM fine."

Lestrade wasn't quite convinced, but although he secretly wished John to tell the truth, he decided to not push the matter any further.  
>Instead he watched John struggle into a sitting position, feeling the urge to help but knowing the doctor wouldn't approve.<p>

Thousands of questions were razing through Lestrade's head at this moment, making it almost impossible to decide which one to ask first.  
>He had just decided to demand what had happened at the pool when he suddenly saw John's eyes widen and heard a small "Oh, no!" escaping his lips.<p> 


	21. Chapter 21

"What?" Lestrade turned, trying to make out what had frightened the doctor without much success. "What have you seen?"

He stood on his toes in a small attempt to get a better view of the street, half expecting to make out the man Sherlock had claimed to be Moriarty, but John grabbed his wrist and made him turn round again.

"You've got to get me away from here!" The doctor's voice sounded anxious and Lestrade thought he could even see a hint of panic in his eyes.  
>For a moment he just looked at John, startled. Where was he supposed to take John? What was he running away from?<p>

"Please!" John insisted, and Lestrade felt the grip around his wrist tighten. "Where's your car?"

"In the car park", Lestrade stated automatically.

"Then come on." It was obvious that it took John much effort to get to his feet and Lestrade could see him scowl at certain movements, unfortunately confirming his suspicions the doctor was injured.

John barely even managed to stand before his knees gave out, although luckily the DI had the presence of mind to steady him.

"Thanks", John murmured as he had acquired his balance again, and Lestrade carefully let go of him, staying on alert to catch him in case.

"I suppose my body is punishing me for not having eaten..." John apologized, a forced smile appearing on his face.

"How long has it been since you've had your last meal?" Lestrade asked worriedly, lowering his hands a bit as John didn't seem in danger to collapse right away.

The doctor frowned. "Way too long" he finally said, then, he shot a nervous look to the exit. "Which way to the car park?"

Lestrade directed vaguely to escalators and they started walking towards them, John casting anxious looks over his shoulder and Lestrade closely watching the doctor, as he was still afraid he could break down.

John indeed stumbled several times, but was able to catch his balance again without Lestrade interfering.

The DI also turned his head several times, hoping to get some idea of what was scaring John, but there were nothing but some town people rushing to get home and some tourist taking pictures. Nothing special for London, really. They had just reached the escalator as John suddenly stiffened; panic suddenly appearing on his face.

"Come on!" He hammered the button to call the escalator impatiently.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked, turning to the street again but John held him back.

"Don't", he hissed. "He might see you."

"Who?" Lestrade asked lowering his voice while trying to somehow get a look of the street without turning his head too much.

John didn't answer as the escalator finally arrived but drawled Lestrade in before the doors had fully opened.

John instantly hit the close-doors button but in the few seconds it took the doors to shut Lestrade could get a good view of the street:  
>There was Sherlock Holmes, his usually fast glance wandering, as if he was looking for something. Or rather someone.<p> 


	22. Chapter 22

By the time I remember my promise not to look for John, I'm already sitting in a taxi. It was bit late to be thinking of that, really, but it's remarkable that I remembered at all. I rarely pay attention to what people say to me, when it's not case-related. Then again, it was JOHN that said it.

Normally, I never give promises that cost me effort to hold onto, or I know right from the start I'll break them. Either way they never influence my actions.

But this one is quite different.  
>It's like something in me hates to break it. I feel like I'm going to cross an invisible boundary and this might cause some damage that can never be fixed again.<p>

I know that this is just stupid, but as always when feelings decide to get in my way all of my logic, I can't make them go away.

I realize my fingers are nervously drumming on my lap. I instantly stop them, embarrassed to have shown such an obvious lack of self-control. My body only acts on my mind's command. Movements give things away, and I can't afford to do that.

Unfortunately, this proof of my weakness stimulates my feelings even more. Sitting motionless becomes agonizing (even more so than always), and I long for a cigarette more than I ever have since meeting John.

"We've arrived", the cab driver suddenly says, making me realize that the taxi has stopped. He has turned around to look at me, a bit worried. As our gazes meet I expect my mind to analyse him instantly, but it doesn't.

'You're going to betray John' is all that comes to mind.  
>At this very moment I think about telling the driver to go back to Baker Street. I know that this is an option, despite what I've tried to tell myself.<br>For the split of a second the situation is on breaking point and both options seem equally right (or rather wrong) to me.

Feeling and reasoning battle each other, and it feels like two waves rushing toward each other breaking as they meet. A moment later the battle is over. Reasoning has won. Without shooting the cab driver a second look I toss some money to him (way too much surely) and get out of the taxi.

* * *

><p>The lights in Harry's apartment aren't turned on, and I highly doubt that anyone's in there. The thought that it is a trick crosses my mind, but I quickly dismiss it:<p>

John knows he'd never get away with it, and he definitely wouldn't spend more time at Harry's than was absolutely necessary. He has to be close though, judging by how shocked he was when he told me he'd seen Harriet.

Of course, he could've used the half an hour it took me to get here to run away himself, but I might be able to find some information about where he's headed here. My gaze rushes over my surroundings, looking for anything unusual.

My eyes catch on a bracelet, lying only a few yards from the front door. I kneel down, taking a close look to analyze how it is arranged before lifting it with my fingertips.

The seal is broken in a way that hints to violence, though it probably wouldn't have taken much effort, since the bracelet is rather cheep.

I turn it in my hands searching for an engraving. Unfortunately there's nothing.

I look closer and come to reason it can't be Harry's (it's dirty so it's already old but not worn out enough to be worn everyday, and an alcoholic certainly wouldn't manage to put it on and off each evening). As I also rule out John to possess such thinks I just let it drop to the ground, since it doesn't hold much more interest to me.

"Are you here about the robbery?" I turn around abruptly and find myself face to face to an elderly man. "The police are becoming really lazy nowadays", he continued, "Back in my time we would've come within two minutes to arrest someone threatening a woman!" I let my gaze slide over him: He's in the middle of his seventies, but looks older. Though being forced to have a cane, he's still holding himself as upright as possible. In addition, the words "in my time" it clearly hints on the man being a former policeman.

Apparently he's not gotten over the fact he is out of service. He's probably one of those old people annoying the police with reports of all the "crimes" he's seen.

Mostly these people are just boring, but there is a high chance he might have seen something concerning John, so I decide to stay polite instead of telling him to piss off.

"Yes, I'm here because of the robbery", I agree straightening up satisfied to tower him by more than a foot. "Can you describe either the victim and the culprit in detail?"

The man nods eagerly. "The man was short… Not much taller than me… He had darkly blond hair, cut short a bit like the ones in Army Service…It's hard to judge his age, but I would say about forty." I feel adrenalin flooding though my veins. The features the man describes certainly hint to John.

"What exactly did he do?" I interrupt the pensioner who just started to describe a woman who is for sure Harriet.

"I didn't see exactly… I had just arrived when the woman cried "robbery" and before I could help some young men came to save her. Unfortunately the bastard has managed to ecape…"

"Where did he go?" I ask impatiently grabbing the shoulders of the old man. For a moment he seems frightened by that then he points down the road. "There, I tried to keep sight of him, but he disappeared in a crowd of tourists…" I let go of the man and turn to the direction he has shown me. I walk off without thanking him.


End file.
